


and the angel was overcome

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bondage, Chokehold, First Time, M/M, PWP, Strength Kink, Tie Kink, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:13:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23629807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: Sam wrestles an angel, an angel wrestles with Sam.
Relationships: Castiel/Sam Winchester
Comments: 18
Kudos: 74
Collections: SPN_Masquerade Spring 2020





	and the angel was overcome

**Author's Note:**

> Written for spn_masquerade for the prompt: "Sam and Cas have fun with Cas’s tie: tying Sam up with it, gagging him, or playing with it in any other way you can imagine."
> 
> My knowledge of wrestling is limited to having recently read a wrestling match in Ovid and found it hot. Plausibility may be lacking.
> 
> Title from the Bible via U2.

Castiel has been accustomed to look down from the heights of heaven. This vista should not make him dizzy. But it does. 

Sam, however, seems at ease here. He runs his hand along one of the endless ranks of plaid sleeves, smiling. Perhaps Sam actually likes his clothing. The possibility is alarming, but also endearing. Sam seldom seems at home in himself, but his equal unawareness of his beauty and of the terrible things he does to conceal it might suggest, after all, a kind of wholeness, an aspect of himself that Sam has never thought to question. 

Castiel doesn’t have that luxury. He’s surprised that beyond the long aisles of white shirts and beige coats and endless blue ties there aren’t further racks of corpses, Jimmy Novak upon Jimmy Novak vanishing in converging perspective.

He feels that sick lurch of vertigo again.

“Hey,” says Sam, “FBI suits. We always did seem to have an endless supply of them.” 

The plaids have given way to grays and dark blues and stark white shirts indistinguishable from Castiel’s. Sam and Dean have indeed always been puzzlingly incurious about their ever-renewed luggage. And now Sam seems less disturbed than Castiel would have expected by the discovery of Chuck’s wardrobe world. 

Maybe it’s because Chuck is gone. Sam doesn’t mind Jack presiding over his costumes. After all, Sam’s not wearing someone’s body. Castiel wonders if Jack and Claire have ever talked about Claire’s father. Jack spends time with the younger hunters, here and elsewhere, mingling with his world. Sam and Dean and Castiel aren’t at the center of God’s attention any more. That’s probably a good thing. 

And Sam can slip away now, if he wants to. He doesn’t have to act the hunter in Chuck’s tragedies. Castiel remembers how insistent he’d been on returning Sam to himself that time in the town where he’d been happy. In the end all he’d done was compel Sam to choose an uncongenial fiction over one he preferred. Somewhere here, probably, beyond the jeans and flannel and cheap suits, there will be a smaller section of brown cardigans, perhaps a drawer of hair ties. Castiel hopes Sam won’t find them. He turns, to block Sam’s view. 

Sam is taking off his clothes.

Castiel has watched Sam strip his shirt off before. He always does so matter-of-factly, mind on something else. It’s clearly never occurred to him that Castiel might be watching. He watches now. The muscles shift under Sam’s skin as he reaches for one of the white suit-shirts. They’re heavy and flowing, like rivers that Castiel has seen, the Amazon, the Mississippi, where the current tugs the water into braided ropes. 

Castiel thinks his own appropriated body is adequate. Certainly he can channel enough force through it to kill and, more rarely, heal. But what a pleasure it must be to be the native inhabitant of a body like Sam’s, to live inside there. No wonder Sam had resented it so much, when it was stolen. No wonder Lucifer had preferred his true vessel.

Sam pulls on the suit trousers, buttons the shirt, and slips the jacket over his shoulders. The suit fits Sam quite badly. Most of his suits do. And the shirt is too small; the buttons strain over his chest. Castiel could predict their exact trajectory, if they were to pop off. He concentrates on doing so.

“What do you think?” says Sam, “ _Agent_?”

Castiel’s throat is suddenly dry. He shares Sam’s room sometimes. He thinks of it as a gesture of trust, though in other moments he wonders if it’s a test, a trial of Sam’s adjustment to invasion. He has never mistaken it for an invitation. This, though … did Sam realize he was watching, after all? Has Sam known all along?

“You need a necktie,” Castiel says, “if you’re impersonating the FBI.” 

Sam has left the top two buttons of his shirt open. The hollow at the base of his throat may account for the fact that what Castiel has just said has nothing to do with what he intended to convey. Or he may be distracted by Sam’s choice of options. Off in the distance he can see a short row of black knit turtlenecks. Somewhere behind them are old t-shirts that Castiel doesn’t recognize, too small for Sam as Castiel knows him. And somewhere there will be those brown cardigans. Out of all these Sam has selected this most familiar impersonation, this allusion he believes Castiel will catch. 

“Here,” Castiel adds. He strips off his own tie and loops it around Sam’s neck. Perhaps this will hold Sam still, hold Sam to himself. Sam’s body is his own. He should be grateful for that. He has the wholeness which Castiel desires. And yet he’s been careless of it, again and again. He may take himself away from Castiel at any moment, and Castiel couldn’t prevent him. Sam is offering him something now, but how can Castiel be sure Sam will hold still long enough for Castiel to take it?

“You don’t have to give me the tie off your own neck, you know, Cas. You’ve got about ten thousand of them here. More than enough to spare. Even if you’re, like, seriously into necktie bondage.”

Sam is breathing is a little fast, but he’s smiling at Castiel, more amused than aroused. Castiel has been painfully, mortally hard since Sam bared his arms. The affection in Sam’s face is infuriating, tantalizing. A few moments ago Castiel had regarded Sam’s oblivion with fondness. Now it maddens him. Castiel’s want is as invisible to Sam as the beautiful wholeness of his own body. Sam is offering a friendly seduction, a little enjoyment of each other among Chuck’s absurd trappings, as though that’s what Castiel desires. And Castiel has no way to say how his desire exceeds the mark, how he wants to take not what Sam offers, but Sam.

“I might be,” he says instead, at random. 

“You want me to tie you up with neckties? I mean, sure, if you want. Hey, we’ve got all this. We might as well use it.” Sam heads over to the endless, thin blue lines of ties and takes down a handful.

Castiel frowns. This time Sam’s irrelevance is effectively distracting. 

“That wouldn’t work. I’m quite able to tear the fabric. It would make more sense for me to tie you up.” 

Sam tugs experimentally at one of the ties.

“I mean, I could probably break it, too. It’s a necktie, not nylon or a steel cable or something.”

Castiel has seen Sam tied to flimsy chairs with fraying ropes and inexpert knots. He never seems to escape. And most of the beings that capture him don’t even want him the way Castiel does. To them, Sam is incidental. And yet he surrenders. Castiel is beginning to be angry.

“Silk is strong,” he says. “I’d use more than one. You wouldn’t be able to free yourself. You’re not an angel. You aren't as strong as me.”

“Oh yeah?” says Sam. He’s still grinning. He must know that he is no match for any angel, not in a contest of strength. Castiel may be a usurper in this body, but he is rooted to it, his grace twining along the fibers of nerve and muscle and sinew. He can’t own it, but he commands it. And he can command Sam through it, if Sam issues the challenge.

Maybe that’s what Sam wants. Maybe he desires the fissures between Castiel and his risible, painfully erect, stolen frame as much as Castiel desires his wholeness. Maybe Castiel’s desire hasn’t tripped him up after all. Maybe it’s put him at an advantage.

Sam raises his arm. Castiel grips his wrist. Sam grunts when Castiel’s thumb bites. He pushes against Castiel’s hold. Castiel stays steady, not exerting himself. Sam is panting, now, his whole body straining. Castiel can see the cloth of Sam’s trousers tent as his penis lengthens and thickens. Like the rest of Sam, it’s impressive. But Sam has chosen terms that leave it little leverage. Castiel may admire it, but it will be his penis that makes its way past Sam’s vaunted barriers. It will be he who explores the dense spaces where body and soul knit together in darkness. And he will be flesh in flesh, not angel in vessel. 

But first he will tie Sam in silk. He’ll bind him properly, not like those sloppy, petty, unworthy villains Sam and Dean go up against week after week. Sam won't surrender to him as he does to them. He’ll know not to do Castiel that dishonor. 

Most of what Castiel knows of wrestling comes from the human literature that Metatron had emptied into his brain. The angel who wrestled Jacob left no notes for his siblings. No matter. This doesn’t require art or science, only strength. And Castiel doesn’t want advice from the loser. He twists and bends Sam’s arm behind his back, crowding against him. Sam jerks backwards, trying to dislodge him. But Castiel has hooked his other arm around Sam’s throat. He squeezes. 

They sway together. Castiel recalls the vertigo he’d felt, when they’d come to this place, looking down the monotonous vistas of his single guise. It will be Sam’s senses swimming now. Castiel tightens his grip. Sam groans like a bullock and sags to his knees. Castiel puts his knee to Sam’s back and presses him to the floor. He bends his mouth to Sam’s ear.

“You’ve lost this,” he says. “Yield.”

Sam bucks against him. “Make me,” he croaks.

Well. It will be easier, anyway, to take Sam’s clothes off — those bare arms — if he’s unconscious. Castiel tightens his chokehold until Sam finally stops thrashing and lies still. 

Stripping Sam is troublesome. His large frame is cumbersome, unresponsive, and his slack face irritates Castiel. But binding him is a pleasure. Sam is awake as Castiel loops the first necktie around his wrists. Castiel doesn’t let Sam’s peevish, experimental tugs distract him. He takes his time, weaving the material in and out, knotting it carefully, lacing the second tie in, and then the third. Wrist to elbow an intricate pattern of blue, like the nests built by some of Castiel’s Father’s remarkable birds. It’s strange to remember that, after all, Chuck did create wonders.

And if these are the ties that bind Castiel’s power to his stolen body, well. For Jimmy this ornament marked a place in human hierarchy, a kind of mastery. Castiel knows that his taking from Jimmy was wrong. But taking Sam will be different. This time he won’t take _from_.

“You know,” Sam says, “your _silk is strong, Sam_ thing’s a good line, and I’m sure you’re doing great work back there, but in a real fight you might want to hold off on the shibari. I could, like, kick you, and get away. Or Dean might show up. In, if you really went up against me, if you wanted to live, you couldn’t take the time to be artistic. Don’t you want to get on with things before I wriggle free and take off?”

So Sam is trying to shift ground. He is not, Castiel notes, trying to get away. Not that he could. No, Sam doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t even want a change of terms. He’s aware of his shame here, his escapes, his surrenders, all those times he’s submitted to wholly inadequate bonds. Artistic, indeed. Perhaps he even remembers the last time he grappled with Castiel, when he’d chosen new clothes, a new name, a new wife. Perhaps it had been the more congenial fiction. Perhaps Castiel had had no right to drag him back. But Castiel had spoken then as general to general. A good commander knows how to lose. Castiel will teach Sam to lose. Sam has requested the lesson, choosing this trial of strength where he knows he won’t conquer.

Castiel can’t give commands here, not to his fellow commander whom he will defeat. What he takes he must take by force. He rolls Sam over, bound arms under his back. He’s going to need them eye to eye when he clinches this. Sure enough Sam kicks out, hard and vicious. Castiel tangles his legs with Sam’s, trapping them. Sam snarls and snaps his teeth, heaving off the floor. He doesn’t bite, though. This is a fight without weapons, force against force. Force against time, in truth. Sam will tire.

Castiel takes thought for that interval. He can’t just sprawl here on Sam. That’s no elegant binding. And Castiel is aroused. If Sam’s struggles bring Castiel to climax, if he spills here, outside Sam, clothed, unprepared, that will be defeat — Castiel’s shame, Sam’s victory. He gets one knee on Sam’s thigh. That leaves Sam’s other leg to twist and kick towards him. Castiel’s arm, there, behind Sam’s knee. Sam strains. Castiel pulls the leg towards him, stretching to the point of pain, but not beyond. His other hand is on Sam’s shoulder, holding him down. Crouched like a runner now at the start of a race, he awaits his moment. The grip is exciting, but there’s no friction against Castiel’s penis. He can wait.

Sam is too canny to spend all his strength at once. He strains now one muscle, now another, testing. Castiel watches. It’s beautiful, the shifts in Sam’s face, the ordered tensing and easing, the small grunts and the husbanded, panting breaths. Sam’s ribcage rises and falls. The tendons in his neck stand out as he tries to stretch and arch up. He’s running with sweat, streams of it. It’s like wrestling a river, or some water god. Proteus, who had to be forced into truth. But Sam is no god. This is the salt of humanity coming off him, given up, overflowing for Castiel’s senses. Castiel does not perspire. He will never have this, this pressing out of essence. He grips Sam tight and holds him down and envies his salvation.

It may be minutes or hours before Sam is spent. There’s no economy to his breathing now; he sucks in air like a foundered horse. His hair is plastered to his face. His teeth are still bared, but his eyes have gone unfocused. Castiel hauls him close and Sam doesn’t resist. Castiel tastes salt and bitter wax, human things, as his tongue touches Sam’s ear.

“You’re right,” he says. “You could defeat me. You might have an angel blade. I’ve given you one in the past. You might draw on witchcraft, or on your own power. You could trap me in holy oil. You have. You’re a dangerous adversary. But strength against strength, when I am myself, you will lose. Every time. And I’m claiming my prize.”

A long shudder goes through Sam’s body against Castiel’s. Then, effortfully, he raises his head. He’s grinning.

“ _My_ prize,” he says. “You think I’d wrestle an angel for who tops if I’d wanted to win?”

For a moment Castiel is dizzy again with reversal. Then desire seizes him by the neck and shakes him. It’s a giant, stronger than Castiel as Castiel is stronger than Sam. Castiel gropes on the floor. There are still two more ties. He gags Sam hastily — no more grinning speeches, Sam’s voice is always grating — then binds the other more carefully over Sam’s eyes. Sam will celebrate this in the dense mortal dark, as Castiel will, thrusting blind into Sam’s body.

Castiel strips quickly. His hands are shaking. So are Sam’s limbs, a trembling exhaustion. He’s slumped forward, bound arms an intricate design of blue against his back. Sam wouldn’t be able to see Castiel’s handiwork, even without the blindfold. That achievement is for its maker’s eyes. Castiel knees Sam’s legs apart and spits on his fingers. He doesn’t sweat, but he has saliva, and semen. He has enough ties to the world to mingle with Sam. 

Sam groans as Castiel breaches him. Or maybe he shouts with triumph. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter whose victory Castiel is seeking in here. His penis is flushed hard, militant and obedient. It will scout and find what Castiel seeks, and mark the place with his seed. Castiel’s grace will soak in deep. Surely something human will bind to him in turn. He takes his fingers out and pushes in.

Castiel remembers his first descent into a vessel, the power burning through flesh, the confinement. This is like that. It smooths as he begins to move, but still it grips and wrings him. Fair enough. Let them be on equal ground, himself and his opponent. Sam is bound in silk, but the knots must bite. 

Though the sounds Sam makes through the gag aren’t pain. They aren’t even the hard, careful breathing of their wrestling match. These are long-drawn moans, ample and luxuriant. They madden Castiel. What right has Sam to such pleasure, such animal at-homeness, when Castiel must strive and plan, weave intricately, draw in his lines and tighten them? Yet he wants to hear more. He drives deeper. Here is Sam himself, not the layers of plaid or the FBI suits or the tempting alternatives Chuck strewed here and there in his way. Here is Sam in place under Castiel. His long limbs and muscles are Castiel’s. Castiel subdued them. He isn’t here to envy, but to claim.

The giant shakes him again. A reminder that Castiel, too, is in the hands of overpowering strength. It would be foolish to grudge Sam’s enjoyment when Castiel has his own share. He feels his thrusts jerk out of rhythm and stutter. Sam cries out, muffled. The giant pulls a groan from Castiel’s throat. Sam clenches around him as Castiel crests. He’s spending his force, spilling. Grace dazzles and ripples behind his shut eyes, fades as it pours into Sam. Castiel can sense it spreading out, trickling, sinking in. Not an infiltration this time, a possession. Not an alien binding as it is in Castiel’s vessel-body. Sam’s body will turn this into Sam, as roots make rain and sun into grass. Castiel holds for a moment, surveying the landscape, brimming with exultation and doubt. Then the moment of vision ends. Castiel sighs and withdraws.

He finds that doesn’t want to know quite yet what Sam will say when the gag is undone. He sets to undo the knots and weavings around Sam’s arms first. As soon as his wrists are loose, Sam moves his fingers to help. The ties have left patterned red grooves as far as his elbows. 

The blindfold and the chewed, sodden gag leave red lines as well. They make Sam look masked. He licks his lips twice, testing. Castiel waits.

“You OK, Cas?” Sam says at last. 

Castiel bows his head into his hands. He thinks he might weep, or strike Sam in earnest. Instead, he is overcome with laughter. It goes on and on. Tears squeeze out at the corners of his eyes. Another human secretion he can approximate. 

When he is able, he looks up. The enraging sincerity of Sam’s concern is tempered right now with dismay. The expression, Castiel thinks, is legitimately ludicrous. It may be taken to retroactively account for his laughter.

“You seem, uh,” Sam says, “should I …?” His hand hovers near Castiel’s shoulder. The marks on his forearm are fading.

“No,” says Castiel, “I’m fine.” 

He could remonstrate with Sam, rage at him, wrestle him again, but what would be the point? Sam is wholly unaware that this compassion of his is another evasion, a running again and again from the field of battle. That is Sam, and Sam is what Castiel has wanted. Justin with his hair tied back and his brown cardigan had been, too. 

Now that he is naked with Sam in this room of disguises, he can change his perspective, observe Sam’s careful system of escapes with wonder. It’s like and unlike his Father’s birds’ nests. This is a human marvel, planned in its obliviousness. It’s a system of irrigation. It diverts things from their straight course and puts them to use, keeping inaccessible regions of Sam alive. Whatever Castiel rained down on Sam will be processed through intricate networks before it emerges as Sam, as Castiel’s friend.

So that, Castiel thinks, is how one claims something. Not by conquest; by submitting oneself to be part of its workings. There’s a wholeness in that, in being a part of something. Castiel is content with that.

“I’m well,” he assures Sam again. 

Sam smiles. He has no idea what has happened to Castiel, or that anything has happened. Castiel is content with that, too, that ineradicable unawareness. 

Maybe that’s why he shares Sam’s room, for the pleasure of watching him sleep.


End file.
